


you're the feeling of release i dream of

by troubadore



Series: geralt fluff week 2020 [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Fluff and Smut, Hades Geralt, Hades/Persephone AU, M/M, Persephone Jaskier, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: He cannot stop the surge of affection in his chest when he finally,finallylays his gaze on Jaskier, dressed vibrantly as always in colors that pop against the dull, dreary backdrop of the world and plucking upbeat melodies from his lute into which he weaves bawdy lyrics.Those blue eyes find him as he steps into the tavern, and the way they light up with happiness makes them glow.Six months is too long apart.orHades and Persephone reunite once again
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: geralt fluff week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860493
Comments: 14
Kudos: 344





	you're the feeling of release i dream of

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a week late but this is my last entry for [geralt fluff week](http://geraltfluffweek.tumblr.com) for the prompt 'established relationship' ! 
> 
> this is a hades/persephone au where the whole drama with demeter is over and they've settled into the routine of persephone leaving every spring and returning to hades every winter （˶′◡‵˶）
> 
> this was also absolutely inspired by the stunning hades geralt/persephone jaskier art i commissioned from maya (gayjaskier/mersephesie)~! go show her some love and commission her, i highly recommend it!

They meet again in early autumn, in a tavern somewhere in the northern part of Aedirn. 

Days are beginning to shorten, nights becoming longer. The dry heat of the summer season is mellowing, becoming something gentle and lazy, cooling quicker as the sun falls below the horizon. Soon, the days will start cool, and only become cooler. 

Geralt craves this change of seasons and what it means, anticipation settled in his chest like a tangible object. He feels as if he's been asleep the last half year, his heart dormant in the summer heat, waiting to wake up and be with his entire reason for existing once again. 

He cannot stop the surge of affection in his chest when he finally, _finally_ lays his gaze on Jaskier, dressed vibrantly as always in colors that pop against the dull, dreary backdrop of the world and plucking upbeat melodies from his lute into which he weaves bawdy lyrics. 

Those blue eyes find him as he steps into the tavern, and the way they light up with happiness makes them glow. 

Six months is too long apart. 

He finds a seat at a table tucked away from the rest as Jaskier finishes his song and makes his excuses, and then Geralt has an insistent bard-god pressing up against him, surrounding him with the smell of meadow grass and wildflowers. There's a yellow dandelion tucked behind one of his ears, a bright pop of warmth against the pale seafoam of his doublet. 

"Heading north so soon?" Jaskier grins, chin propped in his hand. 

Geralt hums. His skin vibrates with the need to _touch,_ to hold and taste and _own_ . He holds himself still, aware of the side glances and subtle appraising gazes thrown their way. _Not yet._

"Lot of contracts cropping up in Kaedwen this year," he says. "Figured I'd take care of them on my way." 

"How benevolent," Jaskier teases, but it sounds genuine, too: he means it, means for him to know he's a good and kind god, even as Hades who is feared and grudgingly respected in turn, and a warm feeling settles behind his ribs. 

Ringed fingers trace aimless patterns over his inner thigh beneath the table, unseen, and a different sort of warm feeling settles a little lower. Desire pools in his belly like good ale and hot food as he gazes into half-lidded blue eyes darkened with want, looking at him from beneath long lashes. The familiar musk of Jaskier's arousal mixes with the meadow grass and wildflowers, and Geralt _wants_. 

"Will you come with me," he asks, as he does every year—their own personal ritual—"to Kaer Morhen?" 

Kaer Morhen: the Underworld. A place of cold and dark ruled by the god of the dead. A place where light and warmth dare not go. 

Except, he thinks, for the part of the year when its halls are graced by the very god of spring sitting beside him, his Persephone, bringing light and warmth and _life_ even to a place of death. 

Jaskier's lips curl in a pleased smile, and Geralt craves the feel of them against his own. 

"My dear," Jaskier murmurs, low and sweet, "I thought you'd never ask." 

They retire to the inn room Jaskier has rented for the night, and despite the way his desire still thrums through his blood, Geralt does nothing more than lie beside him in the small bed, eyes tracing his contours, relearning the picture he makes in the low candlelight. His dark hair is artfully tousled, his fair skin warm beneath Geralt's light touch, and he tastes of cheap wine and spice when Geralt finally presses forward and licks into his mouth. 

"Missed you," he breathes on a hot gasp, one hand cupping Jaskier's cheek and angling his head, the other sliding under his side to pull him closer. "Always miss you when you're gone." 

"I'm here now," Jaskier breathes back, whisper-soft and gentle. His fingers tangle in Geralt's hair, pulling it free of its tie, and he hooks a leg over Geralt's hips. "All yours for the winter." 

They don't go farther than deep, lingering kisses and desperate palming, hands gripping their bodies tightly as they press their heads together and simply bask in each other's warmth. Their mouths brush when they smile, and Geralt noses over Jaskier's cheekbone, lips trailing feather light over his skin. He presses one last, soft kiss to the corner of Jaskier's mouth before finally lying back, simply content to gaze into eyes the color of the sky in summer. 

The scent of wildflowers and meadow grass fills his senses and, for a brief moment, the air stirs around them as if a gentle breeze had entered the room as Jaskier gazes back, the corner of his mouth quirked in a fond little smile. His deft fingers trace gently over Geralt's face, following the line of his nose, the hollow under an eye. 

"I love you," he murmurs, voice kept soft so as not to disturb the peace settled over them. There is only the sound of their breathing and the beating of their hearts, and the breeze rustling through the trees outside the open window. "You know that, right?" 

Turning his head, Geralt kisses his palm, on the meat of it right below his thumb. He reaches up and presses it against his face, keeping it there, grounding himself with the warmth of the touch. 

"It is the one truth," he says, careful, as if the words themselves are glass that might shatter if he speaks too quickly, too recklessly, "that I am sure of." 

That Jaskier's love for him is as sure as his own for his god of spring, Geralt has no doubts. 

Jaskier lets out a breath, something not quite a laugh but full of relief and joy nonetheless, and Geralt closes his eyes and smiles into the kiss he presses forward for, gentle and chaste, over too quick. He pulls back and settles beside Geralt, tucking his face into his neck, and Geralt listens to his breaths slow and even out into sleep. 

With his heart in his arms, Geralt follows him into dreams. 

The journey through Kaedwen goes smoothly, overall. It's been years now since people turned witchers out on principle, and the White Wolf himself besides. They wind their way north, Geralt picking up contracts and Jaskier bringing last bursts of warm air and spots of color to the towns along the way. 

The weather grows colder, the clouds above growing thick and finally releasing a downpour of chilled rain that turns to snow and then ice the farther north they go. Geralt sweeps through and pulls souls from their mortal bodies, gone stiff and cold with frostbite, or succumbed to pneumonia, and sends them on their way to Kaer Morhen. Some resist, fearful of him, but with Jaskier's gentle coaxing, his embracing warmth, they settle and move on. 

Death is never easy, even for the god of the dead. 

The world is layered in a thick blanket of white by the time the walls of Kaer Morhen come into view. They leave a trail in the path that's immediately swallowed up behind them, covering their tracks. It's quiet, serene, the only sound around the whistle of the wind through the pass. 

Jaskier, despite his nature, seems wilted as they finally step inside the great keep, its halls dark and hollow. He presses close to Geralt, seeking heat from the cold, and with a gesture of his hand, the sconces along the walls flare to life, a warm breeze stirring through the hall, and suddenly the desolate, harsh place is inviting and kind. 

They retire to the main bedchamber as soon as Geralt has made sure the new souls arriving find their places, settling in properly. A roaring fire is brought to life in the hearth with another gesture of Jaskier's hand, warming the chilled air and giving the room a soft, intimate glow. 

The bed is inviting against the far wall, draped in warm furs and silk sheets. 

"Home sweet home," he murmurs, sharing a tired smile with Geralt, and Geralt presses a kiss to his hair. 

"Welcome back. Let's get you out of these damp clothes and into something dry." 

"Well, how am I to resist such temptation?" Jaskier teases, slipping from his hold. He heads to the wardrobe across from the bed, letting his snow-soaked doublet fall from his shoulders, and Geralt watches him working at his pants before he disappears around the dressing screen. 

Geralt sheds his armor and dons instead a thick robe of bear fur, a gift offering to their patron god from the witchers of the Bear school years ago. It's soft over his skin and warm from the heat of the fire, and it eases the tension he holds in his shoulders under the weight of responsibility, lets him cast aside the god and just be a man. Barefoot amidst the pile of furs he's dropped in front of the hearth, he watches the dancing flames crackle, almost mesmerized. 

He feels Jaskier's presence behind him like a spring breeze, gentle and light. The scent of meadow grass and wildflowers follows, mixed with the heady musk of his arousal like rain on the horizon that stirs his own desire. He turns to face Jaskier with hunger in his eyes as he steps from behind the screen, knowing they must be as dark as the fur of his robe. 

Jaskier is a vision in his own red robe, the color of the most expensive wines. It nearly slips from his shoulders so wide is the neckline cut, held in place, barely, by clusters of embroidered golden dandelions at one shoulder and the waist. It's slit up the sides to his hips, giving only a teasing view of his legs as he approaches Geralt. 

A crown of buttercups sits in his hair, as delicate as his will is not. 

He steals Geralt's breath away, this beautiful god of spring and life, and by the way his mouth curls up in a knowing, pleased grin, he knows exactly the effect he has on this particular god of the dead. 

His hands come to rest against Geralt's chest, fingers splayed through the wiry hair peeking from his robe. His eyes are deep and dark as he looks at Geralt from beneath his long lashes.

"Lord Hades," he murmurs, and his soft voice is a caress in the space between them. "Geralt." 

"Persephone," Geralt murmurs in kind, their lips barely brushing. His desire is a burning weight in his chest now, urging him forward, and he sways into the hypnotizing pull of the god before him, his own hands settling on his waist. "Jaskier." 

Jaskier tilts his head, bumps their noses together, eyes falling closed. "Kiss me," he whispers, and who is Geralt to deny him? 

Their mouths fit against each other like they were made for it, two halves of a whole brought together again, and he parts Jaskier's lips and licks into him after barely a moment. Jaskier sighs against him, melting into his hold, and Geralt takes his weight easily. 

His hands slide down from his waist to his thighs, the fabric of his robe bunching in his hands as he grips and lifts Jaskier into his arms. Jaskier's arms go around his neck on instinct, his legs wrapping around his hips, and it presses their cocks together, sending a pulse of pleasure up his spine. He bucks on reflex, seeking more—more stimulation, more heat, more of _Jaskier_ —and groans into Jaskier's mouth. 

Jaskier pulls away, panting, and Geralt moves his mouth down the long column of his neck as he tilts his head back, exposing the smooth, unblemished skin of his throat. He presses his lips in a whisper-light kiss against the rapidly fluttering point of his pulse, then scrapes his teeth over it, biting and sucking, and Jaskier bucks in his arms with a gasp, fingers tightening their hold in his hair and tugging. 

" _Oh,_ " he moans, the sound breathy and full of pleasure, "oh, do that again, dear heart— _please."_

Geralt does as bid, scraping his teeth over Jaskier's fair skin and biting down, sucking another bruise into his throat beside the first. It draws another shuddering sigh out of Jaskier, his hips grinding forward against Geralt's, and more bolts of pleasure sings up his spine, sings through his blood, the heady scent of arousal and meadow grass and wildflowers filling his nose and driving him to distracted, desperate madness. 

With careful movements, keeping his mouth against his god of spring, Geralt kneels with Jaskier still in his arms, bringing them down to the furs at his feet. He lays Jaskier out on them, his robe rucked up to his spread thighs and exposing his pale skin covered in thick, dark hair. His cock pushes against the fabric, and there's a dark patch where he's already leaking precome. 

Face flushed a pretty red to match his robe, Jaskier gazes up at Geralt with lidded, hungry blue eyes full of desire. His lips are parted and shiny with spit, his throat dotted with purple bruises, and one shoulder of his robe has slipped off in the shuffling, exposing a peaked nipple. 

His god is glorious, and Geralt _wants._

He's on Jaskier in the space of a heartbeat, covering his body with his own, taking his mouth again in a heated, bruising kiss. Jaskier makes a soft, needy noise, hands coming up to tangle in Geralt's hair, pulling his crown from it—it scratches against the stone floor as he tosses it away, out of reach—and arching his body up against him, legs hooked over Geralt's hips. Geralt grinds against him, wanting to feel Jaskier's cock against his own, rutting and teasing them with just a hint of what they both crave. 

Jaskier turns his head, breaking the kiss, letting his lips linger by Geralt's temple. It makes him _burn._ "Please, dear heart," he whispers, voice high, "I need you in me—I need to _feel_ you. I've missed you." 

It's too much—Geralt growls, low and predatory, feeling more beast than man as he hitches Jaskier's legs up higher, spreading them wider as he pushes closer. He lets his robe fall away to bare him to the god beneath him, pushing Jaskier's up to expose his cock to the warm air of the room. It's thick and flushed, precome dribbling steadily from the tip, twitching under his gaze. 

He wraps his fingers around it, giving a slow, measured stroke, thumbing the head. He lets the slick precome coat his fingers, gathers it up while Jaskier bucks, gasping, " _Oh, fuck!"_

His own cock is stiff and swollen, curling up towards him and leaking as well. It twitches in interest when his eyes drop to the exposed hole farther down, already clenching and releasing as Jaskier writhes under his attention. He pulls his gaze back to Jaskier's face, flushed and sweaty, his blue eyes glazed with hazy pleasure. 

" _Please,"_ he breathes, pleading, begging. He spreads his thighs wider, open and wanton, angling himself as best he can to give Geralt access to his most intimate place. " _Please,_ dear heart. I _need_ you— _ah!_ " 

Geralt lets go of his cock and pushes two of his slicked fingers into him in a smooth motion, making him cut off on a choked moan. His nostrils flare as musky arousal wafts around him, threaded through with the other notes of Jaskier's scent, and he breathes it in deeply. He pulls up one of Jaskier's legs, nearly bending him in half as he hooks it over his shoulder so he can press his teeth to the skin of his inner thigh and bite, sucking more bruises into him as he works him open. 

"Look at you," he murmurs, as Jaskier writhes on his fingers, pressing himself back as much as he can to take them deeper, mouth open and panting, spit running down his chin as he tosses his head. He spreads them, stretching him, and curls them, seeking that spot inside him that makes him cry out in desperate pleasure. "Spread out so pretty for me. Begging for me. Needing me." 

" _Always,_ " Jaskier gasps, his hands clenching the furs at his head. He forces his eyes open, blinking up at him with such tender devotion beneath the pleasure it steals Geralt's breath away. "Always need you. Needed you the moment I saw you." 

It hits him like a blow to the chest, and he lets out a heavy breath, the air driven from him in the face of Jaskier's love. He knows—he's always known—that Jaskier loves him, loves him in spite of who he is, loves him _because_ of it, but to hear it like this—Jaskier laid out under him, voice rough with want and desire, begging for him, needing him, accepting him where others would cast him out—

It shakes something loose within him, something he keeps guarded against the world and those who would do it harm, and Geralt is a slave to his god of spring. The warmth to his cold. The life to his death. 

He lets go of Jaskier's leg, letting it fall from his shoulder as he pulls his hand from his body. Jaskier keens in protest, but Geralt leans over him to swallow the sound in a deep, messy kiss, mouths out of sync and slick with spit. His cock, aching between his legs, presses against Jaskier, sliding against him as he rolls his hips, catching on his hole before slipping away again. 

" _Mm, please,_ " Jaskier whines, _begs._ His hips buck as he tries to force Geralt in him himself. " _Please,_ dear heart, please—" 

"Shh," he soothes, cupping Jaskier's cheek with one hand as his other reaches down to grip his cock, guiding it to his hole. "I've got you." 

The first press into the tight wet heat of Jaskier's body is like a revelation every time, his eyes falling closed as pleasure races along his limbs with every inch he pushes deeper. High, desperate _oh, please, oh please_ s falls from Jaskier's lips as he fills him with slow, shallow thrusts, his hands restless, clenching the furs and Geralt's hair, running over his chest, until he's finally seated all the way in him. 

" _Ooh, fuck_ ," Jaskier gasps, grasping at him, pulling his face down to kiss him sloppy and uncoordinated. He pulls back, and his hoarse, quiet " _Fuck me, dear heart"_ is a warm breath against Geralt's lips. 

He pulls back out and pushes in again, just as slow, repeating the movements in a measured rhythm, and they moan in harmony, Jaskier's head thrown back, displaying the column of his throat, his hair a mussed halo on the furs and his crown askew. He's beautifully debauched, flushed and covered in sweat, and Geralt can't hold back anymore—he gets his arms under his legs so they're cradled in the bend of his elbows, braces himself on his knees, and begins thrusting in earnest. 

" _Ooh, yes,_ " Jaskier moans, urging him on, hands in his hair and on his shoulders and his chest, everywhere all at once, _"Oh! Oh! Oh, dear heart, yes!"_

The crackle of the hearth is joined by the wet, slick sound of Geralt's cock sliding in and out of him, the muted slap of their skin as their bodies meet at the end of each thrust. Jaskier's cock leaks steadily, pooling on his stomach and smearing between them as Geralt bears down on him, changing his angle and thrusting harder, driven by the lewd noises and the way Jaskier pants his name, _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt!_ interspersed with little _ah!s,_ his god of spring crying out sharply and arching against him when he hits that spot inside him. 

"I'm going to come," Jaskier gasps, mouthing wet kisses over Geralt's jaw. His pace is brutal now, thrusts short and sharp, barely pulling out before he snaps his hips forward again and again, and Jaskier just _takes_ it. "I'm going to come, make me come—"

He moans, long and loud, as orgasm takes him, coming over himself untouched. Geralt fucks him through it, his pace slowing, changing to deep and long thrusts that drag his cock against the heat of Jaskier as he shakes through the aftershocks, until finally he slumps to the floor with a drawn out sigh. His body goes loose and pliant beneath Geralt, limbs heavy with pleasure as his eyes flutter open to gaze up at him, glassy and sated and breathing heavily. 

"Come on, dear heart," he teases, a soft grin curling his lips, and Geralt bites out a curse when he clenches around his cock. "Fill me up. I know you want to." 

He bites out a growl and grips Jaskier's thighs, pushing them up and spreading his legs as wide as they'll go as he picks his pace back up, searching for his own release. Pleasure coils tight in his abdomen as he watches his cock slip out to the head before thrusting back in until his balls press against Jaskier's ass, eyes taking in the way Jaskier's hole is stretched wide and glistening with slick. 

His thrusts eventually become erratic, losing his rhythm as he closes in on that peak. He curls over Jaskier, burying his nose in his neck, breathing in his meadow grass and wildflower scent mixed with the sweetness of satisfaction. It settles warm in his chest, familiar and tantalizing, and he bites down, pushing his cock all the way into Jaskier as finally his orgasm washes through him, cresting over the peak and into the swimming sensation of complete pleasure. 

Jaskier lets out a pleased hum as he's filled with Geralt's come, fingers running through his hair as he comes down from the high, petting him with soothing gestures and words. Geralt loosens his grip on his legs and lets them fall, slumping forward as the strength in his arms gives out. 

"Mm, I enjoyed that," Jaskier murmurs, voice carrying a sleepy quality. He shifts his hips, clenching again, and Geralt inhales sharply as another pulse of come is squeezed from him. "Quite a nice welcome home gift, if I do say so myself." 

Geralt turns his head to press a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling against him. The warmth from the fire has filled his chest, permeated through his body to make his limbs heavy with content, but he feels light, floating on the love he feels for Jaskier. 

"Mm," he agrees. "Glad you're back." 

Jaskier's nails scratch against his scalp, a soothing sensation that makes him hum deep in his chest. "As am I," Jaskier agrees softly. "If it were up to me, I'd never leave your side." 

"If it were up to me," Geralt murmurs, on the verge of sleep himself, "I'd never let you go." 

It's an old bitterness, the resent he harbors for those responsible for Jaskier leaving every spring an ugly weight in his heart. _Gods have duties_ , they'd been told, _so do them._

But there is no place for bitterness or resentment here now. Geralt casts it away like the fire casts away the chill of winter and holds Jaskier closer, basking in his warmth. 

His god of spring is here in his arms, and for now, that is enough. 

( art by [maya](http://mersephesie.tumblr.com) )

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) and [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com) for lots more geraskier goodness~!


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